Disappearing Act
by UnitedPen
Summary: Someone's screams echo through the hotel room the night Napoleon disappears.
1. Gone

Someone's screams echo through the hotel room the night Napoleon disappears. Through the haze of sleep, Illya remembers deep, muffled voices above him followed by a soft thump and a series of short sounds. Fingers clasped the weapon under the pillow before Illya stared up at the ceiling, waiting for more.

There had been nothing but silence as Illya stared at the speckled surface, eyelids flickering as the light from the street danced through the window. Gaby's dark hair was spread across her own pillow as small snores emanated from the bed beside him. For a very brief moment, he considers leaving the bundled warmth, maybe even waking Gaby, so he can go investigate the noise.

But his eyelids droop further down and for a few moments he is transported into a world filled with dark hair and piercing eyes-looking at him and through him at the same time-before he is startled awake with a subconscious ominous threat.

Silence continues to surround him. It had been a long mission, he thought, two weeks of theft, car chases and a claustrophobic day where they were trapped in a cell, heavy dirt hitting his shoulders, tears spilling out of Gaby's eyes, before the light flickered out overhead and darkness seeped out of every crevice, until suddenly it was Napoleon surrounding them instead of the blackness.

Napoleon was in the room beside them, not above, Illya reminds himself. There was no need to break cover. He allowed himself to be dragged under again.

* * *

"Solo's not in his room," Gaby sounded a wary as she stepped back into her and Illya's room.

"Breakfast, woman or hangover?" Illya asked absentmindedly as he maneuvered around tables and chairs, looking for any forgotten items. Napoleon's need to satisfy his cravings sometimes led to him wandering the hotel at dawn or else getting back to the hotel at the same time they want to leave.

Gaby was quiet as Illya finished his work, finally meeting her gaze, surprised to see eyes filled with fear.

"His stuff is gone," she said, a faint shakiness apparent in her voice.

"Was there struggle?" Illya asked, trying to discern how serious the situation was. In the back of his mind, during the slow hours of surveillance, he often wondered about Napoleon.

He didn't question his loyalty, but the man reminded him of a caged hawk, ready to spread his wings and live up to the promise of his last name. He was constantly in motion, attracted to shiny objects or daring fights, only tranquil in sleep or chess matches with Illya. If he was to take off over the mountains, Illya could only dream to follow him.

"Yes," Gaby nodded, still standing near the doorway.

His heartbeat quickened, pulse getting away from him, as he reached over, picking up the case beside him, hands fumbling with the clasp.

He kept methodically pushing the button, waiting for the signal to show up on the screen. As if Gaby hadn't checked Napoleon's room for the small piece of metal. As if she hadn't watched Illya collect the trackers at each destination these past four months, not bothering to answer Illya's inquiries about whether Napoleon knew and kept them on.

Illya suddenly wished there were more distractions around the room, so he could ignore the way her hand was trembling as she placed it on his shoulder.

"I called Waverly from the lobby."

Illya wanted to scream at her for not finding him first, he wanted to flip over the table behind him, he wanted to hold Gaby as her hand tightened around him and he wanted painful, ache to flow out of his limbs instead of residing in his chest.


	2. Discoveries

_Four months earlier:_

If he had any inclination to be a painter or a photographer, Illya would have loved to capture Napoleon's face as he closed his eyes, shielding his sight from the midday sun shining across Taksim Square.

Whether it was through brushstrokes or a camera shutter, Illya wanted a permanent recreation of the content man before him, finally peaceful after the chaos of bullets and explosions; hushed whispers and bodies taut with stress.

But Illya was no artist; the image would have to be displayed only in the gallery of his mind. He was content at storing away the memory of a calm Napoleon, one of the many sides of the man he had come to admire since he generously retrieved his father's watch, now tightly wound around Illya's wrist.

The heat from the sun was now slowly surrounding the two men as they sat, patiently waiting for Gaby to finish exploring. Illya could hear the voices of locals and visitors, the volume rising as the excitement of the weekend approached. As usual, a few people, mainly children, would take in Illya's stature, before hurrying off. Even sitting, his height was noticeable.

They continued to wait in a comfortable silence, a small break before boarding a plane to the next country, the next fights that would test Illya's patience in every aspect except when it came to the loyalty of his partners, who were proving the value of someone watching your back, both figuratively and literally.

"I'd like to come back here someday."

Illya turned toward Napoleon and faced a wide smile, but devoid of the smugness Illya before thought was always present in the undercurrent of Napoleon's pleasurable actions. The man knew how to enjoy life's highs, but over the last few weeks, Illya had never seen Napoleon look so open, willing to share secrets with Illya, even if those secrets had no usefulness beyond the present moment.

"Why?" Illya's response sounded indifferent, but his curiosity was heightened. With every gun they looked down the barrel of or the accidents they avoided, Illya knew moving forward, Illya knew he would only learn about the human side of Napoleon-and even Gaby-during the rare moments they could slip into the role of normal civilians.

"The art." Was Napoleon reading his thoughts? "It is everywhere, they are everywhere. Artists continue to gravitate here. The city is going to grow."

If Napoleon was contained in all of that art, Illya would like to return too. For now, the masterpiece he was relishing was the blue eyes that were suddenly focused on him-not a passing woman, not the clasp of a gold band and not paper filled with notes on a target-only his eyes.

"Sounds like a good plan Cowboy," Illya answered, a small smile of his own threatening to break through as Napoleon clasped him on the shoulder.

"Hopefully, we can come back."

 _Present Day:_

Napoleon's room was a mess. Torn newspaper was strewn across the floor, the mattress overturned, a bottle of scotch slowly dripping onto the carpet and glass also sparkling on the ground. Illya knew the red stains, small but eye-catching, were still splattered across the walls, on the sheets and near the doorway where Waverly had told, no ordered, him to stay.

He knew Gaby did not exaggerate, he knew Waverly bringing along other U.N.C.L.E. agents Illya had never even heard of meant something terrible had happened, but a small part of him wanted the hotel room to be immaculate, a navy blue robe hanging on the bathroom doorway, clothes neatly hung in the closet and Napoleon catching up on current events with a paper in his hand.

"A fight," one of the agents was stating as Waverly stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed. After Gaby called, he had immediately flown in, arriving three hours after Illya had successfully trashed his own hotel room and in enough time to keep Illya out of Napoleon's. Gaby was allowed to stay.

"Your Agent Solo was injured in some way. The blood pattern and materials indicate someone entered the room, dragging him away. The hair near the blood also matches the file."

Waverly's next words were distant to Illya, the sound of his own fingers against his arm almost drowning out the conversation.

"Did the second person leave anything behind?"

"Yes." Illya's hearing miraculously came back. "This."

An innocuous cufflink was dropped into Waverly's hand, barely comparing to the ones Napoleon occasionally collected.

"It's a start," Waverly humorous tone he normally used has disappeared in the tense situation."

In that moment, Illya was relieved the split second he contemplated keeping the noises from last night a secret faded when Gaby had cleaned the blood from his knuckles, his own redness tainting the walls of their room after he broke the news. Her kindness created the temporary safe-haven he needed to spill his worries, his fears. It suppressed his need to deal with this on his own, his personal Russian Way. And although his vulnerability was on his display, his exposed core trusted both Gaby and Waverly to look out for him.

"Mr. Waverly?" Another agent was behind Illya, looking a little fearful as he barely reached his shoulder. He didn't move aside, forcing the agent to squeeze past the solid body, muscles now constantly on guard.

"Yes, what did you find?"

"These." More gold cufflinks filled Illya's vision.

Well," Waverly looked at Illya before turning to Gaby. "It looks like we have some work to do."

He motioned for Illya to come inside.


	3. Forward

_Two months earlier:_

Illya hears the crackling and the popping of the fire before he enters the room and it was hard for him to keep in his sigh of relief, just as it was hard for him to resist the urge to grab at the gun, check behind the dark curtains, hunt through every room.

Still, he knew only he and Gaby had the key to Napoleon's apartment, just as they had the key to his. He had also memorized the layouts, every room, every corner as his bugs were continuously placed and then removed by Gaby in both her and Napoleon's apartment, while she told Illya to learn the word privacy.

She had taken to painting her own space with warm shades of blue, while Napoleon's practically bled colour from the extravagant paintings and décor. Illya's space could compare to neither, filled with the bare essentials that gravitated toward Gaby's couch after or more often, Napoleon's spare bed when he didn't feel like being surrounded by the darkness of his own thoughts.

They had barely spent more two weeks in their apartments in London anyway. Except this time. This time, they needed to recuperate, needed the space to mentally step back and process what had almost been a spectacular mess.

For Gaby, that meant drinking, dancing, shopping and somehow running background checks on the local mechanics until she had become a temporary fixture in their shop.

Illya alternated between sleeping and staring at the chessboard, the pieces morphing into Gaby, Napoleon and himself, standing in the manor when the owner eyes had lit up with recognition, indicating he knew Napoleon from their art dealings on the side. The owner smiled as he called for backup.

While Illya knocked down bishops and pawns, in their own match Napoleon had never wavered. He hadn't let a shot get near Gaby or Illya, had kept his eyes focused on his targets as he led them quickly out of the building. It was almost like a machine, whose eyes remained very dark as they were checked over by clinical staff and disappointment oozed out of Waverly's voice when Napoleon confirmed in clipped sentences why they had failed to gather intelligence

There was none of their usual bickering as they flew back to London. And while Gaby and Illya periodically checked in with each other the phone rang endlessly in Napoleon's apartment and Illya's pale eyes only caught him coming back close to midnight when he was huddled against the window. Illya imagined woman or bars like Gaby as he glared at the front doorstep, long after Napoleon slipped inside alone.

Now, Illya had finally entered after him, eyes finding Napoleon's as he stood stiffly beside the light, drink in hand, tossing papers into the fire. Both of them watched the flames consume the stack, Napoleon's head tilting in contemplation.

"Nice to see you, Peril."

"What are you doing?" Illya asked, as his way of continuing the conversation, interest piquing as he saw more stacks surround Napoleon's feet.

"Getting rid of my old life," Napoleon said, bending down to pick up another bundle before flinging it into the fire.

Old lives. It was a strange concept for the two of them considering their ties to their respective agencies. Before U.N.C.L.E., Illya would never have known a life beyond the Iron Curtain and orders. He was happy with the new experiences, new friends, looser restrictions but it sometimes felt like a sweater one size too large. Too much movement.

Illya walked over to the papers, picking up a loose sheet. Napoleon made no indication he was going to stop him. The words and pictures blended together before Illya slotted the pieces into place.

"Your side dealings," Illya knew he sounded surprised. "You're cutting them out?"

"Yes."

"All of them?" Illya asked appreciatively. He could never guess that U.N.C.L.E. would be wasn't sure it was.

"Yes," Napoleon said again.

Illya glanced at Napoleon's face, but like the past week, it was unreadable. But judging by his stature and his actions, Illya could sense a mixture of guilt and finality. The yellow light flickered over both their faces and Illya threw his single sheet into the fire so he could look away for a brief moment. His own actions caused Napoleon to give Illya a warm smile. Illya felt jittery, like an undercurrent of electricity passed through him as Napoleon looked at him.

"Do you want to stay and help?" Napoleon said. "Surely, this is more interesting than chess."

Illya almost snorted. "Just stroke the fire, Cowboy."

 _Present Day:_

One week. One week and despite Illya and Gaby's best efforts, their search for Napoleon was entirely dependent on the cufflinks.

With help from Waverly, the two had confirmed Napoleon's suitcase was gone, trackers stuffed under the bed. A exhaustive search through the city and surrounding country had yielded no results and as the days wore on, Waverly was unable to keep the CIA from finding out about Napoleon's disappearance, which led to a humiliating round of questioning to keep U.N.C.L.E. intact. Illya was waiting for Gaby to finish as he tried to erase the memory of his own interrogation. He had revealed the bare minimum, no American loyalty coursing through him. Napoleon's moments of emotion and vulnerability he had showed Illya briefly were Illya's alone.

They would not believe Napoleon was taken by force.

He had no doubt the KGB would be in touch soon to see if he was hoarding the American and was actually surprised it was Gaby, not Oleg, who pushed open the door. They had moved hotels but were determined to stay as close to the scene as possible.

"Maybe he did go rogue," Gaby said sarcastically as she kicked off her shoes and settled beside Illya. "They weren't exactly flattering when they described their "best" CIA agent."

Illya clenched his fist. "He didn't. You heard agent. There was blood." And just like every waking hour, he sank deeper into himself his mind tried to recreate Napoleon's last actions, final words as well as his own responses.

"Illya!" Gaby practically shouted, breaking Illya out of his trance. She looked almost apologetic.

"I saw Waverly after my meeting. He wants us on another mission."

Illya could feel Gaby's dark eyes staring at him, knew that she was waiting for a confirmation, wanting him to make the final decision even if there wasn't really a decision to be made.

Illya had considered the case might be passed along, knew the CIA felt they owned Napoleon, knew Waverly wanted Gaby on his vital cases, but he had set himself apart, figuring he could continue the hunt before the trail ran cold. Didn't want to open more doors and consider the other possibilities. His best work was always with Napoleon. He couldn't let him down.

"What if he's dead?" Illya asked after a few minutes. Gaby's eyes appeared almost cloudy, before she busied herself by walking over to her suitcase.

"We aren't allowed to linger."


	4. Breaking down

_Three weeks before the disappearance:_

Illya couldn't sleep, couldn't even make a move toward his own room and bed as he listened to the rain and wind beat against the windows. For once, Napoleon was late getting back from a solo surveillance task. With Illya, he would get distracted, stop to snatch an art piece, try to entice Illya with sweet treats or trinkets. But when he was alone, he always arrived at their meet-up spot, right on the dot.

Gaby had long since retired to bed, which left Illya sitting in Napoleon's room. He had taken up residence on the couch, had actually carried his chess board and pieces with him when he realized his tracker hadn't picked up the usual sounds of Napoleon calling it a night. He didn't know why he thought the plastic pieces would distract them.

The door creaked open as Napoleon entered the room slowly. Illya looked up, angry words dying at his lips as he took in Napoleon's appearance.

"Why are you wet?"

Napoleon looked up. He seemed to assess Illya carefully before he treaded heavily toward the bathroom.

"Had a little mishap. Classified."

Illya stood to follow Napoleon. He didn't know why the answer unnerved him, made coils of worry form at the bottom of his belly. He didn't want to think about Napoleon caught underwater-like him-unable to catch his breath. He didn't want to consider Napoleon dying in that way.

He stayed silent as Napoleon dried off, appearing in a blue bathrobe before him. "I was worried…"

He cut himself off right there, looking away from Napoleon as soon as he caught his eyes. Why would he even consider something saying something that hinted at the edges of emotional attachment?

"Illya," Napoleon had to repeat himself a couple of times before Illya looked up. Napoleon's face was unreadable, but Illya noted that he was shivering slightly. He sat still on the bedspread, as if politely waiting to acknowledge Illya's departure.

"Do you want some tea?" Illya gestured vaguely toward the small kitchenette, using his other hand to wipe at the sweat dripping slowly down his face and his neck.

"Ok," Napoleon said, leaning back and allowing his eyes to close. "Thank you, Illya."

It didn't take long for the water to boil, to find the tea leaves. By the time he was padding over to Napoleon, the man had successfully maneuvered himself under the covers. He was still shaking.

Illya waited a minute before setting the tea down beside him.

"Do you want shower?"

Napoleon cracked open his eyes, a strange mix of defiance and fear stared back at Illya, before the blue eyes disappeared again.

"I'll be alright."

Illya's eyebrows furrowed together as he got ready to protest that Napoleon didn't appear to getting any warmer, but as a tired sigh came from the bed below him, Illya bent down to remove his shoes, maneuvering to the other side of the bed.

"Peril, what are you doing?" And if this wasn't emotionally compromising, than Illya didn't know what was. But Napoleon was still shaking.

"Body heat," Illya grunted, invading Napoleon's personal space. "You need it."

And Napoleon turned, making Illya realize just how close they were. He could practically make out the subtle shades of blue in Napoleon's eyes, could clearly see the dark eyebrows and matching eyelashes. The smell of standard hotel soap surrounded him and Illya was taken aback by how much he wanted to move forward, as much as he wanted to stay still.

"Peril…" Napoleon was whispering. "Do you trust me?"

And Illya gave one full nod before Napoleon leaned forward on his own, lips meeting Illya's before Illya gave a sharp gasp, pulling away.

"What's-" Then Napoleon's lips were on him again, this time causing a groan before Illya's fingers found Napoleon's hair, tugging slightly as Napoleon's mouth wandered near Illya's ears. Illya's own fingers danced lightly down the nape of Napoleon's neck and he wondered if Napoleon could feel his pulse racing in his own.

They opened their eyes together, Illya surprised at the pure want on Napoleon's face and he gulped back the own emotion rising in his throat.

"You've stopped shaking," Illya quickly rose, busying himself with his shoes.

He didn't look at Napoleon when he left.

 _Present day:_

Illya spent two weeks on a mission with Gaby, caring enough about her to make sure she had backup, but disregarding her feelings completely as they gave each other the silent treatment.

At nights when Gaby would secure a phone line and talk with Waverly, Illya wrote letters, unaddressed, Napoleon's smiling face appearing briefly over the words like _"Where are you, Cowboy?"_ and _"I need you here._ He had stolen the sheets from Gaby. He had taken over the role of thief.

Each paper finds its way into the fireplace or crumpled in the wastepaper basket before Gaby returned from her increasingly long conversations.

She finally broke the silence after they swept their latest room together, Gaby eyeing corners and crevices Illya never even considered before she faced him.

"You understand why we can't look for him." Her voice was low and Illya kept up his cool stare.

"We find him alive, unhurt, the CIA takes him. We find him hurt, the CIA takes him. U.N.C.L.E. will be finished. There's no way this ends well. They do not take deserters lightly. They are watching."

And Illya knows she's right and knows she's evaluated the risks. They don't acknowledge the nights they stay up together, but apart in separate rooms. Gaby often paces and flips through maps.

The rationality does nothing to quell Illya's imagination. When he does doze, he sees dark hair or blue eyes. Or he hears the screams from the night of the disappearance. Some nights the voices morph into one word, _Pacific,_ and Illya wakes up thinking his own mind will be the next one deserting him.

Illya also knows Gaby will make a great director one day, but wonders if he'll be around to see it.

* * *

It's a few more weeks before the KGB calls him back behind the Iron Curtain. The CIA has made contact and he is put through another round of questioning. It is not as brutal as he is expecting.

Oleg sends him on a solo mission then, perhaps to test loyalty, perhaps because he needs his best agent, but he doesn't even think to call Gaby and Waverly to tell them goodbye.

One mission morphs into five, then ten and before he knows it, it's been months before he has spoken more than a few words of English. Napoleon's face gets clearer in his dreams and Illya starts seeing a strange future while asleep. They jump on the bed together, bizarrely, and they lay together as the yellow sunlight covers them. But when Illya rolls over, Napoleon is gone.

His next mission is back in Rome. He tries to replace the yellow sunlight by staring down flames a bit too long. Explosions rock his body, but Napoleon is still there, until he wakes up in a white room, Gaby sitting beside him. His arms are covered in white as well.

"You're scaring me," Gaby's voice is calm, but he sees tears. "We thought that you going back to your home country might help, but it's not."

And Illya tries to pretend his voice is thick from disuse.

"I can't stop missing him."

Gaby leaves before the tears fall.

* * *

Oleg appears a day later, when Illya is sitting up, idly flipping through a newspaper. Illya wonders if the Gulag is next, considers whether the pain there can cure the heavy feeling in his chest.

His handler is silent, leaving Illya time to stare at the deep lines that continue to grow in number and size every time the two meet. He remembers a younger Oleg, one who approached him a couple years after the KGB had taken him from his family. With every leader, Illya followed orders, but Oleg's slowly departed from overarching Russian loyalty to getting one job done at a time. He had let Illya continue with U.N.C.L.E. after blatantly disregarding orders.

He seems just as tired as Illya.

"You are a good agent," Oleg always speaks in Russian. "You are a very effective agent. But you will not be as effective if you die waiting for your partner."

That is the closest to a compliment Illya will ever receive from the KGB.

"You will go back to U.N.C.L.E." And Oleg is sliding a grainy picture beside Illya, uncapping a pen and drawing a circle around a figure Illya met briefly. Illya's eyes narrow at the cuff links on the man's sleeves.

* * *

One of the advantages of Illya's size is he can check out of the hospital easily, although he thinks Oleg or even Waverly told the nurses to leave him alone.

After a brief stop at the front desk, he finds Gaby in the original hotel, in the same room.

"Give me the cuff links!" Illya hadn't planned on shouting.

"Illya," Gaby put her hand up.

"No, this little waiting game you and Waverly have been playing is over. I know to find Napoleon. I will track down this идиот who was wearing these cuff links. I am going after Napoleon! That's my partner. He needs to know someone is looking, even if it's just me!"

The door creaks behind him.


	5. A Clue

_One week before the disappearance:_

Illya was grateful he was discharged from the field hospital early. Gaby was still getting stitched up and was told to stay put via a phone call from Waverly, but was conscious and talking, Illya knew she wouldn't be far behind him. Napoleon was back at the hotel resting-all three of them still had to find the last person running the crime ring. But Illya wanted to thank Napoleon from saving them from that collapsing cell the brother and sister duo had so kindly left him and Gaby in.

If he was being completely honest, he also wanted to just be with Napoleon. There was something almost mournful in the way Napoleon would look at him this past week, when Illya would steer clear of any discussion except the mission at hand.

Illya quickly got into a taxi, watching the lights of Barcelona wink at him and the soft hum of the motor. Before long, he was heading up the hotel steps and rapping his knuckles against Napoleon's door.

He heard a bit of shuffling, before Napoleon appeared, hair wet, from what Illya assumed was a shower, and dressed in a dark bathrobe. The specks of dirt visible on Illya were gone from Napoleon's pale skin.

"Yes, Peril?"

Illya felt a little apprehensive before he spoke.

"Can I come in?"

Napoleon stepped aside and Illya found his way to the large couch, hands fidgeting as he kept his gaze on the dark floor.

"Does Waverly have some more plans?" Napoleon asked.

Illya shook his head before he looked up to see Napoleon's impassive face.

"No, I just came to say thank you," Illya coughed. "Thank you for saving me and Gaby."

Nodding, Napoleon gestured to the door. "Thanks for coming by."

He stepped back as if clearing a path for Illya, but Illya chose to remain where he was. He wanted to explain himself, pull Napoleon into a hug, really anything-but instead he stayed seated. It might have been better to leave, continue as just partners, but Illya was practically choking from his desperation.

"Dammit," Illya heard Napoleon swear, before a glass of scotch is sliding toward him. Illya raised his eyebrows as Napoleon knocked back his own glass.

"I want to talk about other night," Illya said. A smirk curled at Napoleon's lips.

"Back for more, Peril? And here I thought you were ready to forget it ever happened." Napoleon rose to wander to the miniature bar as they lapsed once again into silence. Illya played with his glass as Napoleon sipped his own liquid slowly this time. He kept standing instead of joining Illya on the couch.

"So what do you want to talk about?" Napoleon said after the long silence, after Illya succeeded in killing a few more minutes by splashing the liquid around in the cup. "How bad it feels when you refuse to even discuss what happened?"

From his place on the couch, Illya could see Napoleon's head was turned away, body ready to flee depending on Illya's answer.

"I didn't want to become one of the women," Illya said, struggling to articulate what he had feared since they kissed. Napoleon was facing him now, giving him his entire attention. Illya placed the glass down, feeling out of his league, as Napoleon finally sat down beside him.

"What women?" Napoleon asked.

"The ones you sleep with. The ones you forget." His fingers are shaking now and he was thankful he had put the glass down before he would break it. He wasn't meant to be in this room, Napoleon beside him, the bed a little to the left behind them, sheets drawn back and inviting.

"I wouldn't forget you, Illya," And Illya is surprised he can hear Napoleon past the blood rushing in his ears.

* * *

This time, Illya stays to watch Napoleon as the sun filters in through the curtain, waking up from a dreamless, but content sleep. The light covers Napoleon's naked shoulders and the scars made a stark contrast against the skin. His hand hovered over Napoleon's body lightly, before he finally lowered it down, drawing himself even closer. Napoleon's face was peaceful, his brow smooth, but Illya found he could not drift off again, choosing instead to study the sculpted cheekbones, the rare mussed up hair.

Illya's past the point of no return and wishes he could hover in this space, this time forever. While he enjoyed Napoleon close by when they were avoiding gunfire, when Napoleon was sparring verbally with Gaby, he liked being this intimate, this quiet.

They share small smiles when Gaby isn't looking, although Illya is sure she sees. But despite the happiness Illya feels, a foreign sensation he doesn't even remember from when he first met Gaby, he senses Napoleon's getting quieter during the moments they're together or he when he visits Gaby and Illya as they wrap up Waverly's assignment. He still talks about their plans; even jokes about him acting like the "pussy" when he has to pretend to be interested in a job with the ringleader. However, he seemed distant and distracted, lost in his thoughts, when Illya or Gaby are focused on something else. Illya couldn't help but worry.

Three days later, Napoleon kissed an anonymous woman when Illya was coming back from a spontaneous shopping trip with flowers in his hand. He is only aware of his breathing and his heartbeat, as the flowers find their way into a bin.

Napoleon goes missing that night.

 _Present day:_

For one wild minute, Illya expects Napoleon to come sauntering in, but instead it's Waverly, eyes scanning the room, before he settles on Illya.

"Kuryakin," Waverly nods, and Illya tries to control the irritation flowing through his veins that is threatening to surface. "It's good to see you survived the blast with everything intact."

Illya doesn't answer, refusing to acknowledge his recent past with the KGB, about how _wanting to die_ became a viable option instead of living without Napoleon.

A clap echoes through the room as Waverly rubs his hands together.

"As much as I disapprove of what you did, Kuryakin, and there will be further discussions believe me, the CIA has grown rather bored of your escapades and has dropped their tailing you and by extension, U.N.C.L.E."

Waverly and Gaby share a knowing look, as Illya head swivels between them.

"Makes no sense," Illya said. "They wouldn't give up unless…"

The picture now felt like it was burning in his pocket as his hand gripped the edge, sliding it out of his jacket pocket. He allowed himself a quick glance, already having memorized every single detail, before he held it out for Waverly.

"Just as we suspected," Waverly said, not even inquiring where Illya had obtained the picture, and Illya knew immediately the "we" included Gaby. "We figured the CIA found him or took him."

His fist tightened as he thought of the two of them, strategizing whether finding Napoleon's whereabouts was a priority. For him, it was number one, as he just wanted, no _needed,_ to believe Napoleon would never discard him without at least some explanation.

"Kuryakin, I suggest you and Miss Teller go through these hotel rooms again," Waverly said.

"Then what?" Illya couldn't keep the bite out of his voice. "We wait some more? I find him and there's some side U.N.C.L.E. mission where Napoleon is strapped in chair?" He directs the last part at Gaby.

"No," Gaby responds directly, though a flash of hurt briefly flickers across her face. "We will travel around the world until we find him."

"Believe it or not, Kuryakin, I have grown quite fond of Solo," Waverly said. "I think if we get him now, with the CIA distracted and U.N.C.L.E.'s numbers and legitimacy growing, I can extract him fully from the agency."

Waverly's serious tone suddenly turns bright again. "Now, from what I gathered from my interactions with Solo and his file, he tends to act in his own self-interest. Or at least until he finds someone he cares about." He seems to look at Illya strictly longer than necessary before he goes back to his speech.

"I think we can all agree that he feels noting but animosity toward the CIA," Waverly continued and Illya wishes the man Waverly was speaking about was actually there to "translate" Waverly's directions, as he had in the past.

"What that means, Agent Kuryakin, is he may have left a clue."

* * *

A couple's suitcases are the first to go sailing out the door, Gaby having stuffed the materials in the bags before Illya starts flipping over tables and chairs. He's just gotten to tossing the blankets from the bed before his strong hands grasp the wooden frames when Gaby calls out.

"I found something," she said and Illya practically ran out onto the balcony, where Gaby had perched her sunglasses on her head and was on her knees, seemingly stroking the brick wall.

"Look," And Illya gets down beside her. In a way, it feels natural with the two of them, searching for answers, ready to bounce ideas off of each other. If only Napoleon was out seducing one of their connections.

"This one brick is sticking out." Her rings sparkle as she removes the red piece, followed by a single paper.

"It's his writing," Illya said, as they read the scrawled, yet still loopy handwriting on a small scrap of paper, the hotel's logo emblazoned in the corner.

"378136 and 1449631," Gaby reads the numbers twice, before she smiles at Illya. "They're coordinates."

"Pacific," Illya murmurs. "I heard that word the night Cowboy was gone." He takes the paper, cradling it in his palm. "He might have meant the ocean."

* * *

Waverly confirms the Navy can accept them on an "exploratory" mission to learn about Australia's involvement in South East Asia, before a new U.N.C.L.E. team pinpoints a of couple key locations small CIA teams were using to monitor the situation in Vietnam. It takes about a week, but Waverly's other men and women are good, so Illya and Gaby find themselves on a plane bound for Melbourne. Gaby sleeps, her arm resting comfortably on Illya's.

They had wrestled again one night, but Gaby stayed awake for a long chat, covering U.N.C.L.E's motives, trust, Waverly and her admiration for his commitment to Napoleon's well-being.

He once again thinks she knows he's fallen in love, a strong passion that has him staring out of the plane window, barely hearing the other passengers' newspapers ruffle or their snores. He wonders where Napoleon is, what he's thinking, if anything can continue if Napoleon is alive.

The pure want surges through him as he absentmindedly plays with his watch. The rational part of his mind knows it's illegal, but so is nearly three-quarters of the actions he carries out in the name of the KGB and U.N.C.L.E. So one more secret couldn't possibly bring him down, not like the fear of not having Napoleon near him. His soul was clinging to seeing those blue eyes again, the same soul that ignored Gaby's questions of how he would react to a dead body.

Somewhere during the 22-hour flight he drifts off and wakes up with tears coating his lashes, Gaby shaking him and holding out his coat. He shrugs it off as soon as they are wandering through the city, pretending with detached interest to listen to the officers.

Both of them slip out in the cover of night, Illya carrying the map full of circles as Gaby creeps the car down quiet the streets. Illya is vaguely impressed at her ability to drive with the wheel on the right side. Sweat pools on his forehead, but whether it's from nerves or the overbearing heat, Illya cannot tell. A van joins them on their route when they far enough away from their hotel. The first building is abandoned, as is the second, but after they sneak in a window with a broken clasp, Illya hears a moan in the basement of the third.

The first room causes Illya to drop his gun, a small thud echoing down the concrete halls as Gaby comes up behind in. He immediately grabs her arm to spin her around.

"Don't look." The fear is almost palpable and Gaby half turns at Illya's wide eyes. He grabs her neck.

"Just go bring in the extraction team!" She dashes off as Illya starts gasping, dropping to his knees, hands clenching and unclenching as he stares at the scene before him.


	6. Stay Awake

_Four months before the capture:_

Napoleon receives the call almost twenty minutes after their Istanbul mission is declared finished and almost ten minutes after he has changed into new clothes, fingers wrapped around the doorknob, ready to meet Gaby and Illya.

His hand jumps a little, startled by the sound that had been invading his nightmares, but resigns to pick up the phone. Ever since the smoke curled up from the burned disk, he knew the orders were coming. He just wished he had more time.

He doesn't commit to what he was told to do, just puts down the phone with practiced ease and smoothed his face into a carefree smile, instead of curling up on the cream-coloured bed like he desperately wanted to do. He does his best to admire the artists around him instead of focusing entirely on Illya, only stealing glances to memorize his face. Napoleon knows he is a very skilled liar and he hopes that that he has carefully hidden his anxiety and fear and left a lasting impression Illya can look back on in a positive light.

 _Two months before the disappearance:_

Meeting the man he thought had forgotten about him had surprised Napoleon. However, his second phone call with his contact did not. On his good days, he fitted neatly into his role of a liar and would convince himself that he did not have to leave Illya and Gaby. As he made sure neither of them died, he had figured out why an individual from his past had shown up instead of the person Napoleon had watched the day before.

"You can leave right now or these missions with U.N.C.L.E. will keep getting harder," The phone call was very clear.

But Napoleon was selfish. He hadn't yet gotten close to Illya, hadn't even really tried to see if they could become anything more. Erasing his old life meant erasing himself as well, but Napoleon reasoned he had a few more weeks before all his flames burnt out.

 _Three weeks before the disappearance:_

The pain signaled his games were up. The figures in the shadows approached Napoleon during surveillance, held him under until he choked and choked, the water filling him up before they discarded him, gasping, on the side of the river.

It was a warning and Napoleon knew these would be the last few days to try to ask Illya if his heart also beat unsteadily when they worked together, if he longed to feel their bodies move in sync, if he thought of sweet moments where they could hold each other in between dragging each other down in the best way possible.

In the end, Napoleon was grateful Illya thought his wet appearance was part of U.N.C.L.E. and his only thought when their lips met was he finally understood when Gaby's novels (that he sometimes nicked on long plane rides) spoke of fireworks.

He tried to pass off the heavy feeling in his chest as a symptom of a near-drowning experience instead of Illya leaving him behind. Perhaps it was better for Napoleon to exit U.N.C.L.E. the way he entered; unimportant and an acceptable casualty.

 _One week before the disappearance:_

As they escaped the cell, Napoleon kept wishing it would collapse on him once Illya and Gaby ran out. But it had stayed intact and Napoleon chose to slip quietly back to his hotel as the two were examined. He couldn't promise himself he wouldn't give Illya any more somber glances.

A joke did nothing to get rid of his partner and Napoleon was so glad there were few words spoken that would complicate the way he looked beyond Illya's face to commit the lean torso, the muscles that would twitch under his fingertips, the imperfections contrasting the smooth skin. His smile betrays none of his uncertainty and he kissed Illya's lips hard, gently grasping his cock as he enters him, relishing the closeness before the light filters in through the curtains.

The woman who approached him three days later had none of the remaining innocence Gaby carried about her, none of the humanity and curiosity where people could mistake you for a civilian. Even in the way she stood, she was unmistakably a spy whose eyes narrowed as she informed Napoleon coldly that he was to be ready with his intelligence that night. From the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw Illya holding the bunch of flowers and his heart swelled as he leaned forward, asking the woman to kiss him to avoid suspicion, no need to inform everyone of his upcoming capture. Perhaps she thought someone might be listening because she agreed.

Illya didn't come into Napoleon's room that night and while he yearned for one last kiss, he spent his time writing down coordinates instead of gathering the nonexistent recordings and notes his handlers had asked him for all those months ago. The location wasn't a guarantee, but was one Napoleon had learned about during his second year as a CIA agent, when he was brought into further question the one prisoner he regretted capturing after he had seen the state he was in after time in the facility.

There was no way Napoleon would be alive if Illya and Gaby ever found the folded piece of paper, but his stomach lurched when he thought about what they would do with his body. It also might provide them with some closure.

They ended up dragging him into an upstairs hotel room, the kicks to his stomach and fists to his face starting as they searched his previous room. Before he fell into unconsciousness, he screamed the word as one last clue.

Regrettably, they kept him in fairly good condition for the next couple of months, forcing him into missions with threats of ending Illya, Gaby and even Waverly's life. Napoleon knew eventually his usefulness would run out and when it did, they could stop following U.N.C.L.E. so intently. When the opportunity came to wound another agent, he broke a jaw.

The agent had asked him to shoot at a Vietnamese woman holding a baby, so Napoleon felt he had at least ended his run with the CIA successfully. He didn't dwell on whether or they had just killed her later. His brain was trying to hold onto his sanity, as they got ready to kill him.

 _Present day:_

It was Napoleon, Illya was sure of it. There was no hiding from the fluorescent light, a stark contrast to the rest of the basement.

But didn't look like Napoleon as he continued to stare, unable to raise his body up from the concrete. The thudding gravitating toward the centre of his head got louder as his eyes dropped from the bloody, manacled wrists keeping the other man upright to the small cuts scattered all over the feet. One leg was twisted unnaturally, the other filled with deep, angry-looking gashes where Illya could spot the signs of infection. His eyes quickly glanced over Napoleon's private area and he could feel the first tears cascading at the bruises around the ribs and a fairly recent stab wound, as well as more lacerations on a torso that was just too thin.

But it was the face, the face that made Illya want to turn around and snap the neck every single person who had left Napoleon in this state. The forehead creases were the first clue that alerted Illya to the man's identity, but the rest….the closed eyes were blackened and the lips…Illya had to swallow down bile as he noted the threads keeping Napoleon silent, except for one side, where a loose thread allowed another wounded moan to escape.

The sound convinced Illya to finally move forward, carefully approaching in case he startled Napoleon. One shaky hand reached forward and Illya hears himself let out a sob as his hand rested on a bald head, the curly locks he loved to grip and run his fingers through long gone.

Blue eyes slowly opened as Illya used another hand to examine the chains, cursing at the apparent lack of a lock before sensing a small movement. He stepped back, a small bubble of joy floating away from the anger as he saw Napoleon was truly alive.

 _"For now,"_ the voice in Illya's head stated and he silently willed Gaby and her team to move faster.

"Stay awake, Cowboy," Illya's voice broke as Napoleon's eyes met his, awash with fear, pain, shock and strangely hope. He didn't look away until he heard a strange crack from above, his own eyes widening as Napoleon slipped a very thin and now broken wrist through the loop, trying to push the hidden clasp in the other manacle before Illya moved to help.

"Always reckless," Illya murmured fondly, as he lowered the both of them to the ground, Napoleon against his chest. This time his blood-slick fingers went to Napoleon's neck and he frowned at the unsteady beat, unsure of how Napoleon was even awake or alive. When he saw Napoleon's eyes close again, he didn't yell because footsteps followed right after.

"How did you find this place?" The gruff, American voice was not from U.N.C.L.E. and Illya caught a faint glint of cheap cufflinks before he glared at the man. Sanders. Illya recognized him from their meeting in Berlin and Oleg's picture. He started to reach for his gun before Sanders pulled out his own firearm, aimed right at Napoleon's head. Napoleon didn't even stir and Illya wished he had time to cover him with his jacket.

"One move, Kuryakin, and he will die right now. Although it does look like he is on his way."

Sanders is telling the truth. Napoleon's breaths are slowing down against Illya's chest and there is absolutely nothing Illya can do to speed it up.

"You will kill him anyway," Illya said. He has lost, but he wants to stall so Napoleon can maybe, just maybe die with Illya's arms around him, fading slowly instead of from a shot from a man he despised. "And me. Just tell me why you did this. Funny how you Americans always seem to think yourselves better than Soviet Union, treat citizens better. Doesn't seem to be any truth there."

He was counting on Sanders' scowl from his statement.

"We treat loyal Americans well," Sanders said, not lowering his gun, but not taking a shot either. "Solo here was a thief from the beginning, but useful. He could have lived, had he managed to be a functional agent and get the nuclear plans or maybe even U.N.C.L.E. secrets, instead of choosing to be loyal to a Russian spy."

Sanders turned toward Illya.

"I believe he referred to you as 'it' after you first chased him. 'Barely human' was also used." Illya's arms tightened around Napoleon at Sanders' words.

"Solo can be quick to judge," Illya said. Napoleon hadn't told him about that night he helped Gaby, so Illya figured this was before they had officially met. There was no grudge as Illya often feels ashamed for trying to kill Napoleon later in the bathroom. And Sanders also didn't deserve to hear Napoleon's nickname or first name even coming from Illya. "But afterwards, he usually can assess a person's character accurately. He was right about you being an asshole."

He practically spits out the last words and almost smiles as he thinks of Napoleon being proud of his back talk. His chest moves out of sync with Napoleon's breath and Illya starts regretting his words as Sanders cocks his gun.

A pop rings out and Illya takes a second to determine if he still alive before his eyes fly open, taking in Sanders flat on the ground and Waverly behind him, looking out of place in dark material instead of his usual suit. Illya feels terrible for doubting whether he cared about Napoleon before his focus goes back to the body he is holding.

"Tranquilizer gun," Waverly said, as he steps toward the two of them, hand making a signal as a group of U.N.C.L.E. agents rush forward, pulling Napoleon away from Illya.

"Wait," Illya shouts, as Gaby tries to move him away as they wheel a stretcher in, a hand over her mouth at the sight of Napoleon. Illya forgets that he doesn't want her to see.

"Wait, I can't feel him breathing!"

All he can do is watch as they rush Napoleon outdoors, before both Gaby and Waverly guide him to a waiting car.


	7. Coming Back

Illya was barely aware of the dizzying ride to the hospital. He barely noticed when Gaby gently guided him in through the hospital doors, Waverly practically running ahead to speak to a doctor.

The ringing in his ears finally stopped only when the three of them were seated in an empty waiting area, the late hour meaning the hallway outside was quiet. The only noticeable sounds were Illya's own breathing and Gaby speaking softly beside him.

She must have been talking for quite a while, Illya thought, as her voice slowly started to become clearer instead of sounding like it was underwater.

"There you go," Gaby said with a small smile when Illya turned his head toward her. His finger was still twitching as he glanced at Waverly who was on the other side of him, one hand on Illya's shoulder.

Illya flushed, shame washing over him. They should be focused on Napoleon, not the fact that he couldn't keep it together.

"Is there any news?" Illya asked, desperate to get the attention away from him while he clenched his fist in an attempt to get his tremors under control.

A look of despair washed over Waverly before adopting a business-like look while he answered Illya.

"None yet. They have taken him into surgery but I have not been told how long it will be."

Nodding, Illya turned to Gaby, noting the tear tracks on her cheeks.

"So we just wait?"

"Yes," Gaby said. "The staff said we could stay until we hear more. In the meantime, some other U.N.C.L.E. agents are going to bring us fresh clothes."

She looked quickly at Illya who glanced down at his shirt and pants. Despite the dark colours, he could make out the bloodstains. However, they were not as sharp as the ones over his hands and his arms.

"Would you like to wash up?" Gaby asked. "There's a washroom right beside this room."

"Yes, I should."

Illya got up shakily before wandering out the door, passing an U.N.C.L.E. agent sitting outside. He recognized the man (Peter his mind said helpfully) from a couple of bigger missions. It was nice to see Waverly wasn't willing to risk a confrontation with the CIA or any other unnecessary parties.

Stepping into the small room, Illya went up to the sink and reached for the tap before the flash of red stopped him. Any thoughts of turning on the water were swept away as his mind focused on the fact that this was Napoleon's blood. His partner's blood. His lover's blood. It was only splashed on Illya but it was all over Napoleon. Illya was able to wash it away but Napoleon had to endure the mess for who knows how long. Illya mentally calculated that he had been missing for close to seven months, but he did not know when the torture started.

Suddenly the ringing was back in his ears, his hands grasping the edge of the basin as he saw a different room, saw Napoleon hanging from the chains.

Then Illya's hands were suddenly trying to tear the room apart, the sink surprisingly tearing off from the wall easily, then the mirror shattering before the agent sitting outside burst in, yelling for help. Illya knew no more.

* * *

"You had to be sedated," Gaby said the minute Illya opened his eyes. He shot upwards and looked around at the private hospital room before leaning back and closing his eyes once again. He was still in his old clothes but a blanket had been pulled over him.

"I'm sorry," he grumbled. "I guess it…it's too much. "

Gaby sighed. "Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't do it sooner."

She continued while ignoring Illya's glare. "Not because I thought you were going to but because I've wanted to do something similar since I saw Napoleon."

A dark look crossed Gaby's face.

"It is a good thing I am waiting here with you and Waverly instead of guarding Sanders."

They sat in silence for a minute, lost in their thoughts before Illya spoke again.

"Where did Waverly go?"

Gaby smiled. "He's just as impatient as we are. Given it's been a few hours, he's trying to track Napoleon's doctor and bring him here."

No sooner had Gaby said those words did Waverly appear with the doctor. Illya immediately sat up, ignoring his pounding head.

"Agents Teller and Kuryakin, this is Agent Solo's surgeon, Dr. Martin," Waverly said, relief evident in his voice.

"Dr. Martin has worked agents who are now in U.N.C.L.E. before. He has been cleared and briefed on our situation."

The man looked weary but alert, hand running through his black hair before he motioned for Waverly to sit down.

"I'm sure you are all eager to hear about Napoleon and I will start by saying he is alive and stable and expected to recover," Dr. Martin started.

Illya felt tears falling quite suddenly but couldn't be bothered to wipe them away as the doctor continued. He noticed the man looked even more serious than before, if possible.

"However, he is not completely out of the woods and honestly, in all my years working with spies I have never seen an organization do this to their fellow men or women. At least not since the war." Dr. Martin said.

"I did not do all this work for Solo to get back in the hands of the CIA. Say you will protect him or I will leave now and transfer him away where he will be safe. You will not hear from him again."

Illya's breath hitched. How could any of them promise that? He couldn't even protect Napoleon the first time, had failed to see there was something wrong. Yes, Napoleon had kept a dangerous secret but they had all kept stuff to themselves before. Illya knew he should have realized something was wrong with Napoleon sooner.

"We will," Waverly said, breaking up Illya's thoughts.

"You have my word. I will be flying to America to speak to the CIA."

Gaby looked pleased as did the doctor before Illya got impatient.

"Can you tell us more?"

"Right," the doctor cleared his throat.

"Starting with legs, one had to be rebroken to be set properly, the other had gashes that got infected but thankfully we were able to save it. There were also three broken ribs, six broken fingers, a broken wrist, numerous lacerations including whip marks, a stab wound on his torso, another on his back, bruising and puncture marks on his mouth," Dr. Martin winced before continuing.

"Solo had two black eyes but I believe his sight will be normal. But he was also showing signs of hypothermia when you found him. He's dehydrated and very undernourished."

"I do not know how he survived and he's going to need a lot of rest, psychological care, and a proper diet before he can even think about returning to the field. And I'm not talking about weeks. I'm talking about months."

As Waverly nodded, Dr. Martin focused his attention on Illya.

"I understand you have been having a difficult time with all of this."

Illya spluttered, trying to come up with some explanation before Dr. Martin held up his hand.

"There's absolutely no shame in that. I have seen many men and women affected when their colleagues are hurt. I'm going to leave you with these," Dr. Martin pulled out a pill bottle from his pocket. "You don't have to take them but they will help you calm down if you need to. You can also get more help from the hospital."

Illya took the bottle from the doctor, sparing a glance at Waverly and Gaby. Both of them did not seem bothered by the doctor's speech and Illya relaxed slightly. He didn't have to worry about getting kicked out of U.N.C.L.E. immediately and could focus on Napoleon.

"Can I see him?" Illya asked.

"Why don't you rest here for a bit?" Dr. Martin said. "He probably won't wake up until later today, if that. His mind and body are probably exhausted."

"The agents have brought new clothes Illya," Gaby piped up. "There's some pajamas in there too. I can stay here or if you would like, I can go back to the hotel."

"Stay," Illya whispered. He didn't trust himself to be alone.

Gaby nodded, before rustling through a bag of clothes as Dr. Martin and Waverly left the room, speaking in low voices.

* * *

Illya was surprised when he didn't have any nightmares or at least none he could remember. He supposed he was too exhausted for his mind to haunt him and it probably helped that after a few hours, he was asking to go and sit in Napoleon's room until he woke up.

Gaby sat with him for a few hours before dozing off. Illya had ended up shaking her awake and telling her to go to the hotel and sleep in a proper bed instead of a chair.

She gave him a grateful smile before promising to come back either later that night or in the morning. Waverly also stopped by, saying he wanted to wait until Napoleon woke up and talked to him before Waverly confronted the CIA. He soon left to speak to more U.N.C.L.E. agents about shutting the CIA's torture houses down, if possible.

In the end, Illya couldn't tell whether he was thankful he was alone or not. He got to grasp Napoleon's hand, which was amazing because he never thought he would be able to do that again. But it also meant he couldn't look away from the pale skin, the bald head and the bruises.

He cried a lot over the next two days.

* * *

Napoleon woke up with a start, breathing heavily, immediately tensing for the first blow before he took in the warmth around him, the machines beside him and the soft bed beneath him. It was an odd sensation after many months in that freezing basement and he can't remember how he even got here.

"Assess the situation," Napoleon thought to himself. He's in a hospital, that much is obvious, but it could be a dream. That would be terrible and wonderful at the same time. There's no pain right now but going back to reality would be excruciating.

Before Napoleon could even attempt to move, he sees a figure enter the room before closing the door quietly behind him. It's dark, so Napoleon can't make out his face, but it's obvious the person was trying not to wake him up.

When he finally sat down, book in hand, Napoleon tried to reach out but his body protests the movement, the agony suddenly hitting him despite what Napoleon realizes may be numerous painkillers.

"Illya?" Napoleon croaks out. His throat was way too raw and the logical part of his mind tells him he wouldn't be able to feel this if it was real.

Illya jumps, eyes wide like he can't believe what he is seeing either.

"You…you found me." It's all Napoleon can get out before Illya wraps his arms around him gently, both of them too overcome to say anything more.


End file.
